


You shouldn't keep secrets!

by Ebm36



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-05 02:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebm36/pseuds/Ebm36
Summary: Series 3 episode 8Missing scene  after the whipping. Athos' room.Written for Lady_Neve who reviews each chapter of the story I wrote with Kirasum (The past is never where you think you left it.) and who loves Aramis ;-)Enjoy ♥♥♥Thank you Beth for always reading my stories and for teaching me what I need to learn in English.





	1. I'm angry.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady_Neve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Neve/gifts).



**< o><o><o><o><o>**

**I wrote this story because I feel that Aramis is left aside in this episode.**

**He has suffered a lot, both physically and emotionally and no one cares ... or at least, no one seems to care.**

****

 

**< o><o><o><o><o>**

 

         The short intake of breath made d’Artagnan turn towards Porthos. He hadn’t noticed it earlier because his attention was focused on Sylvie - on the bloody gashes on her back, on her whimpers, on the metallic smell of blood- and on Athos. He was mesmerised by his friend’s behaviour. He knew how kind and caring the man was but he had never seen him so tender, so delicate. What amazed him most was the expression in his eyes. There was no anger, no vengeance in the clear irises but such a sadness ... The young man frowned when he managed to read something else: disgust. Athos’ eyes still bore the disgust he had felt when he had discovered Sylvie tied to that pole in the middle of a raging crowd. He averted his gaze when Athos bent over the young woman’s neck and murmured something in her ear, brushing an uninjured spot on her shoulder with his thumb. Again, Porthos’ breathing made him turn his head towards the tall man who stood on the other side of the door, as rigid as a statue, his back straight, his hands clasped in front of him, his mouth curled downward. He was literally radiating anger.

 

         When they left the room and the door had closed behind them, Porthos almost collided into d’Artagnan while striding along the corridor. The young man froze, staring at the large impressive back.

 

“Go and talk to him.” Constance whispered, squeezing his husband’s arm.

“But …”

“No buts, I am fine, I will fetch more cloths and stay with them. Porthos needs someone, he is upset, something is wrong, and you are the only one available for now. Go. I will call if I need you.”

 

         She briefly brushed her feverish lips against his. Her eyes were veiled by unshed tears and the young man opened his mouth to argue but she laid a finger on his lips to silence him.

 

“Go.” She whispered again.

 

         He kissed her forehead and turned around.

        When he left the building, he was momentarily blinded by the setting sun which had finally managed to pierce the clouds. He blinked and squinted until his vision cleared enough to see Porthos entering the archway leading to the streets, his angry steps making the mud of the puddles splatter. He ran to catch up with him.

 

“Porthos, where are you going?”

“Leave me alone.” The big man growled.

 

         D’Artagnan managed to grab his arm but the man dislodged his hand with an abrupt movement.

 

“What’s wrong Porthos?”

 

         He didn’t answer but walked even faster.

 

“Porthos, talk to me, what’s the matter?”

 

         Porthos stopped and turned around, his eyes blazing, the lines of his mouth even more bitter.

 

“What’s the matter? How can you ask?” He snapped.

“I … You …”

 

         Suddenly, Porthos bowed his head and his hand landed on the young man’s shoulder, his fingers painfully squeezing the taut muscles at the base of his neck,  while his other hand grabbed his arm as if the strong man needed a support to stay upright. The short shallow breaths were back. D’Artagnan lifted his hands, slowly, and seized Porthos’ wrists.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

         Porthos shook his head negatively without looking at him.

 

“I’m angry.”

“I can see … feel that.” D’Artagnan answered quietly with a soft smile.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. Just tell me. Let’s sit down a moment.”

 

         Porthos let go of him and d’Artagnan stifled a relieved sigh when the strong fingers ceased to knead his flesh. They went to the first step of the stairs where they sat together. The young man waited patiently. Slowly, the breathing became calmer, deeper.

 

“Where is he?” Porthos breathed out, the words seething between his teeth.

“Who?”

“You know who.” Porthos answered, looking at him, at last.

“Aramis.” D’Artagnan sighed. “I suppose he is …”

“With her, of course. When they need him.” He added with a movement of the chin in the direction of Athos’ room. “He is a selfish idiot.”

“Just because he is at the palace? Though probably because Athos sent him there”

“You don’t know that.” Porthos retorted harshly.

“You don’t know either if he is with … her.” D’Artagnan answered calmly. “You are still angry because of what happened earlier.”

“N …”

“You are, Porthos. We all are.”

“Why does he always think that he has to sacrifice himself?” Porthos muttered sadly.

“Because we all think that. If we thought otherwise, we would be farmers or bakers or … lace makers.” He replied a smile gracing his face at the end of his sentence.

 

         Porthos briefly forgot his dark mood and clapped his young friend’s back. Two cadets crossed the courtyard chatting and they lowered their voice as they passed them. Porthos and d’Artagnan listened silently.

 

“He came back an hour ago. You should have seen his face. Head down…” The first one, a redhead boy with clouds of freckles on each cheek and bright blue eyes said, illustrating his words by a ridiculous imitation.

“So you couldn’t see his face, Paul!” The second boy, as dark as his comrade was pale, replied, laughing.

 

         The other slapped him on the back of the head.

 

“Bertrand, it’s true! No need to see his face. Géraud says that he was with the minister. Believe me, he looked like a child punished by his father.”

“He is always so proud and confident.” Bertrand mused.

“He didn’t even wear his beloved …” Paul added.

 

         The rest of the sentence was lost in the sound of a waggon entering the courtyard.

 

“So he is here.” Porthos whispered. “ I can’t believe it. He is here and he didn’t even bother to visit Sylvie and Athos.” He added in a frustrated tone.

“Something’s wrong.” D’Artagnan said, standing up. “Go and see him, Porthos.”

“Why?”

“Because you need it. Because he probably needs it.”

 

         D’Artagnan squeezed his friend’s forearm.

 

“I need to go back and help Constance. Will you be alright?”

 

         Porthos nodded sadly and turned his back. D’Artagnan watched him walk towards Aramis’ quarters. He sighed when he saw how Porthos moved, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed.

 

<> <> <> <> <> <>

 

         The sun had disappeared again and even though it wasn’t very late, the courtyard was darkened by heavy slate grey clouds fringed with a narrow ribbon of burgundy red, which were about to bring more rain. When Porthos reached his friend’s lodgings, he noticed that a candle had been lit in the room, its glow filtering underneath the door. He lifted his hand to turn the knob but withdrew it as if the metal was white-hot. It was the first time in all the years they had known each other that he didn’t dare to enter this room without being invited. He raised his hand again to knock but just laid it on the wood. He tried to calm his breathing but his mind was still too full of anger. He turned around, ready to leave when the sound of glass breaking reached his ear through the thick wood. He approached the door, his lips almost touching it and called.

 

“Aramis, are you alright?”

 

         Silence.

 

“Aramis, open the door, please. I need to talk to you.”

 

         Silence.

 

“Aramis, please.”

 

         Porthos hated his pleading tone. Of course he was angry, but now, he was worried too. He remembered his friend’s face when they had rescued him, the bruises forming on his forehead, the way he walked, slightly hunched, a hand intermittently covering his sternum.

 

“Aramis. Are you hurt?”

“Go away, Porthos.”

“Ar …”

“Go away. I have things to do.”

 

         Porthos’ forehead was now against the rough wood.

 

“Like what? Dying from hidden injuries or brooding alone in your room? Or both?”

“I … letters … I have … letters to write.”

 

         Porthos winced at the tone of the muffled voice. He knew his friend well enough to read this tone. He was clearly sad, irritated, frustrated and … in pain. Ignoring Aramis’ request, he tried to open the door but it was locked. He sighed and slammed his fist into the wall.

 

“You are a stupid selfish stubborn mule.” He growled at last. “Aramis?”

“ … away!”

 

         Porthos roared angrily and turned around. He breathed deeply and the cooling wet air calmed him a little. The light drizzle which had started to fall again blurred his vision. He let it soothe his nerves until he shivered. He shook his head like a wet dog and wrapping his arms around his chest, he headed towards his own lodgings and … bumped into an agitated d’Artagnan.

 

“Hey, what is it?” He asked worriedly.

“Nothing.”

“Weren’t you married last time I saw you? What are you doing in the courtyard, alone?” Porthos asked curling an arm around the young man’s shoulders.

“I forced Constance to sleep a little. Did you speak to Aramis?”

“Yes … and … no. Why are you here?”

“Because I am worried and because … I …”

 

         Porthos tightened his grip.

 

“It’s unfair. Why does Sylvie have to suffer like that? And Athos … Why?”

“I don’t know ... How is she?”

“She was screaming in her sleep. I … came to retrieve the soiled cloths and  … I couldn’t stay. Her screams and Athos … his eyes, Porthos, I couldn’t … I …” Not trusting his voice, he stopped talking.

 

         Porthos grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look at him. He met a pair of deep brown eyes underlined by dark shadows. Small drops of water trembled on his long black lashes, and Porthos wondered if it was from the cold drizzle or ... The young man’s jaws were so clenched that it must hurt, and his lips were pursed in a grim line they knew too well. He realised then that they were all exhausted and depressed and if they weren’t careful it would break them, it would break their precious bond.

 

“Now you listen to me. We will make it right. Sylvie will heal, Athos will be happy, Grimaud and his acolytes will pay, Aramis will be normal again … Well, I’m not sure a normal Aramis exists.”

 

         They both laugh quietly, easing a little of the tension, then Porthos continued.

 

“Now you will go and rest for a few hours with your lovely wife and I will go and see if Athos needs help.”

“And Aramis?”

“Someone told me once : don’t pray to saints who don’t do miracles. Let’s leave him alone for now, he will come to us. Go home now.”

 

         D’Artagnan nodded freeing himself from the strong grip. Porthos smiled and ruffled his hair.

 

“Not a child.” D’Artagnan grumbled.

“If you say so.” Porthos laughed.

 

         He watched the young man slowly walk away and his smile disappeared, leaving his jaws sore from the effort he had made to grin stupidly. He had wanted to sound strong and cheerful and it had been an ordeal. He had lied to his friend and to himself. He didn’t believe a word of what he had said. He feared that Sylvie wouldn’t recover, he couldn’t believe that Athos would be able to find happiness in his earthly life, he knew that Grimaud was one their worst enemies and the only one able to stand up to the _Inséparables,_ he knew that Aramis had lost something years before, the light which had been his trademark had faded and was about to die. He wanted to believe that what blurred his vision was that damn drizzle.

 

**< o>. <o>. <o>. <o>. <o>**

 

_**To be continued...** _


	2. Help me?

         The door of Athos’ lodgings was slightly ajar. Porthos didn’t dare to push it. Slowly and carefully, he peered into the dim room where a candle was dying on a chair, the melting wax creating a strange sculpture where it met the straw. The sight of the couple reminded him of a painting he had seen once in a church. He couldn’t even remember which one. Or was it a castle? Sylvie was asleep and the orange glow gave her skin -where fine tremors were intermittently running- the tinge of copper or gold, making the bloody gashes on her back even more scary. Athos was asleep on a stool, his head against her shoulder, his long hair falling over his face like a veil. His left arm dangled over the edge of the mattress, fingers brushing the floor, while his right hand was splayed on the small of her back, where the skin was intact. He had an improbable posture which would make him feel sore later. Porthos clenched his jaws and swallowed his saliva. He was about to step back when Athos jerked awake and almost fell of the stool in his hurry to reach for a weapon. Porthos rushed to his side and supported him with a strong grip on his arms, while the Captain’s mind tried to catch up with reality. 

         Athos looked at him with the expression he had had when Aramis had tried to see his wound in Éparcy. Fear, anxiety, despair in the clear bloodshot eyes. Suddenly he sighed and bowed his head, leaning his forehead a moment against his friend’s broad shoulder. Porthos waited patiently until his breathing calmed down, loosening his hold but not letting go of Athos’ slightly trembling body. He noticed how taut his muscles were, how he had lost weight, how fragile he felt under his fingers. Slowly, Athos straightened and looked up at him, gently dislodging Porthos’ hands. He sat on the edge of the mattress and ran his fingers through the mess of his long hair.

 

“How is she?” Porthos whispered.

“Not good. She has a fever.” Athos answered with a helpless look towards him.

“She will recover, Athos, I’m sure of it.” 

 

         Porthos shivered at the uncertainty in his tone and hoped that it didn’t sound the same to Athos’ ears, but the man just sighed and turned towards Sylvie, caressing her hair with the back of his hand. Porthos, who had sat down on the floor, almost jumped when Athos spoke again without looking at him.

 

“Aramis?”

 

         Porthos watched the slender fingers continue to lightly run over the thick curly hair and didn’t answer. Surprised, Athos stopped his movement and turned towards his friend who lowered his gaze.

 

“Porthos? What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you see him? Where is he?”

 

         Porthos just snorted and sighed. Sylvie moaned in her sleep and he watched Athos bend over her, murmuring in her ear. He began to stand up but Athos grabbed his wrist.

 

“Answer me, Porthos.” 

“I … I … tried to … I went to his room but …”

“But? He isn’t there?”

“He refused to open. I know … I know something is wrong but he doesn’t even want to see me …” Porthos finished as anger and sorrow broke his voice.

 

         Athos’ fingers dug into his flesh and it was the only thing that kept him from fleeing the place to go and hide in his room. Athos stared at him until the big man averted his gaze, but he didn’t let go of his wrist. A heavy silence stretched between them, only disturbed by the shaky breathing of the young woman on the bed and by the sound of the rain on the roofs. Athos stood up cautiously and faced him.

 

“I will go.”

“What?” 

“Please, stay with her and call me if anything changes. I must talk to him … What he has done, what he has experienced … It was … We have …” He made a pause sighing. “I have let him down.”

 

         Porthos seized his elbows and almost shook him.

 

“What are you talking about, Athos?”

 

         He led him next to the door and murmured.

 

“Athos?”

“What he did, asking you to … you know …”

“Was insane, yes.” Porthos finished in a low cold voice.

“Insane but … God, Porthos, he wanted to sacrifice himself for us all and … And he was hurt and …”

“I know but … but you have important matters to ...” Porthos said looking at Sylvie.

“I am still the Captain of this garrison, Porthos, and I am still his brother.”

 

Porthos slowly loosened his grip and nodded.

 

“Go. I will stay with her.”

“How is your head?”

“I have known worse.” Porthos grumbled before looking back at Sylvie. “What can I …”

“Just give her something to drink when she is awake. I wish I knew what to do.”

“Aramis would.” Porthos grumbled. “He prefers to hide in his room. He is probably praying uselessly and …”

“Porthos!” Athos exclaimed, his voice harsh. “THIS is useless! If he could, he would be here.”

 

         Porthos snorted angrily and sat down on a low chair next to the bed. Athos bent to kiss Sylvie’s head and he squeezed Porthos’ shoulder.

 

“It will be alright, Porthos. Everything will be alright.”

 

         Porthos sent him a weak smile before taking a wet cloth and laying it gently against Sylvie’s neck. Athos smiled gratefully and left the room.

 

**ooo000O000ooo**

  
  
  


         When Athos emerged from the stifling atmosphere of the building, he stayed for long minutes under the penetrating rain letting it soak his shirt and his hair. He didn’t want to admit that he needed this pause, that he needed to flee the room with its coppery odour of blood, a smell he associated with pain and fear. He was ashamed of this selfish thought but he had to solve a problem called Aramis and it was his duty as a captain. He snorted as he realised that he was trying to find excuses and pretexts.  _ Very well, Captain and brother’s duty first then … Then ...  _ He still couldn’t name what was happening to him. What would his relationship with Sylvie be called? He decided that it was a question he would consider later. He straightened and headed towards Aramis’ room.

 

         He approached the windows but the curtains were drawn and no light filtered. He remembered that Porthos had said  _ He didn’t open _ which meant that the door was locked otherwise Porthos would have entered without any hesitation. He softly knocked, certain that he would be as unlucky as his friend. 

 

         Silence. 

 

         He was about to try again when he changed his mind and turned the knob. Surprisingly, the door opened. Athos peered inside but there was only one candle, slowly melting on the bedside table. However, in the silence, he could hear a shaky shallow breathing. He pushed the door but it resisted, blocked by something … someone? He tried again and heard a muffled moaning.

 

“Aramis?” 

 

         No answer. 

 

         Athos pushed the door and managed to slip in the opening. He held his breath when he noticed the same metallic odour than the one he had left in his room. Blood. He squinted to make his vision clear in the dim light and made out a figure, huddled in front of the door. 

 

“Aramis. What are you doing here?”

He knelt and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder but the man screamed as if Athos had hit him. He immediately withdrew his hand.

“What’s the matter Aramis, what is it? Where are you hurt?”

         As he only obtained a worrying silence, he stood up and softly closed the door. He desperately needed more light so more candles. He had to search for a while but, finally, he found a few of them surprisingly stored in Aramis’ trunk between woolen socks and undergarments and -even more surprisingly- tied in a bundle with a pair of braces. He smiled and sighed, lit the biggest candle with the flame of the dying one and came back to his friend.

         The sight which met his eyes didn’t please him at all. Aramis’ eyes were cast down and underlined by dark shadows, his complexion was paler than he had ever seen it and a bruise covered the left side of his forehead like a wilting poppy. His position was strange. He was hunched and tense at the same time. Athos knelt again in front of him and put the candle on a stool. He didn’t know how to reach his silent friend, he raised a hand then hesitated and stopped. 

“Aramis, how can I help you?” He whispered, finally laying his hand on his friend’s knee.

The tremors he felt under his palm didn’t reassure him. When the flame of the candle became brighter, another sight scared him:  a dark stain on Aramis’ shirt, just above his stomach. He gently began to lift the fabric but Aramis held his breath and raised his eyes to look at him.

“No … please.”

“Do I hurt you?” Athos asked in a low voice.

         Aramis imperceptibly shook his head. Athos continue and sighed, relieved, when he noticed that it was just a scratch and Aramis had cleaned it, but surprisingly not bandaged it. So why was he in this state? He carefully covered him again and searched the dark eyes which were staring at him now. 

“Athos, leave me please.” Aramis managed to articulate but his quivering voice didn’t encourage Athos to obey.

“Who is the Captain in this room?” Athos smiled gently.

“I …” 

         A whimper interrupted Aramis as he tried to keep his hair from falling over his eyes. Athos watched, horrified, as big tears gathered on the dark lashes when his hand barely managed to leave the floor. He reached for the lax fingers laying on the tiles but a strangled sound from Aramis made him stop again.

“Don’t … mmhh.”

Instead of seizing the lifeless hands, Athos covered one of them with his palm and saw Aramis’ features relax immediately before the man spoke, his voice just a murmur.

“You are … wet.”

         Athos smiled.

“It’s raining.”

“Why are you in my room?”

“Because it’s raining outside.” Athos replied with his so special throaty laugh. 

         Aramis tried to smile but even that seemed to provoke an agonising pain. Athos saw his eyes fill with tears again and his face became even paler. He sat down on the floor, a little closer to his brother, his hand trying to warm and reassure him. The fingers under his palm were incredibly cold even if the temperature of the room was rather pleasant considering the humidity of the evening air trying to enter it through the smallest cracks of the door and each tiny slit around the window panes. 

Outside, heavy drops of rain hit the walls, pushed by a strong wind and through this noisy concert, they could hear the low rumble of the approaching thunder.

“I’m so sorry Athos.”

“Sorry? Aramis … I …”

“I wanted to … Sylvie … I should have ...  I wanted to go but …”

He started to shake and tried to curl on himself but suddenly he cursed under his breath and turned his head away from Athos. The latter felt his own heart starting to beat uncontrollably in his chest, panic taking hold of his mind. This day didn’t need one more ordeal, _ he _ didn’t need one more ordeal.

“Aramis, tell me, please … You need a doctor.”

“No … I …” He retorted before falling silent.

         Athos gently lifted his hand to his friend’s cheek -he needed to see his eyes- but even this small movement seemed to make him suffer. He noticed that Aramis’ hands were still open, palms up, on the floor. He looked like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“When Porthos … tell him… tell him I’m sorry. When he … came … I swear, I wanted to open the door but I couldn’t.”

         Athos let his hand slip from where it had stopped, mid air, next to Aramis’ cheek, laying it on his chest instead, feeling the fast heartbeat under the dirty shirt.

“You couldn’t? … Where are you hurt? Now tell me. I came as your brother but as your Captain too, so now, I order you to report.”

         Aramis breathed out a shaky laugh and winced.

“Don’t make me laugh, please.”

“So?”

“My shoulders.”

“And?”

“Just a scratch”

“How?” Athos asked as he couldn’t remember Aramis being wounded by a sword or a bullet.

“When … when we had to save the Queen from the furious crowd. It’s ridiculous, I was hit by a … don’t laugh … the walking stick of an old harpy.”

         Athos sighed with a half smile. 

“What else?”

“A pain in the sternum and the … the Grand Organ of Notre Dame in my right ear because of that damn shot … but I’m fine.”

“You are fine …”Athos snorted. “Don’t make me laugh.” He added dryly, the expression in his eyes belying his light tone. “Now, can you stand?”

“Help me?”

 

_**To be continued...** _


	3. I hurt you...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you for all your lovely reviews. Thank you Beth for your help and support. ♥♥♥**

        

 

         Athos knelt again, carefully slung an arm around his friend’s waist and slowly, they made their way towards the bed. Luckily, it wasn’t far, just a few feets. Athos noticed a broken vial next to the chest under one of the windows and a bowl containing a blood stained cloth soaking in the water which had been used to clean the wound on Aramis’ side. A glass full of an amber liquid waited to be emptied.

         The way Aramis kept his arms dangling along his sides was a scary sight as well as the tremors running through his cold body. Athos made him sit down on the mattress, bundling the blanket with the pillows to put at his back. Aramis sighed, visibly relieved. Athos shivered. The storm outside brought more wet draughts under the windows and his soaked shirt clung to his back. He was looking for another blanket for his friend when he heard Aramis’ low voice.

  
“Take one of mine.”

“What?”

“A shirt, take one of mine.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine.” Athos replied as he unfolded a dark green blanket he had found in the chest.

“Fine, of course, and wet and freezing.”

“Very well.”

  
         Athos rummaged again, his head comically disappearing under the lid of the chest and soon he straightened, a grey shirt in his hands. He showed it to Aramis who nodded his approval. When Athos had his back turned as he pulled on the borrowed dry garment, Aramis noted the reddish and swollen scar, Grimaud’s cruel signature. If Athos had been more reasonable, he would have been able to stitch it properly, to avoid the slow festering of the flesh which could have killed his friend if he had waited a few hours more. Reasonable? How could he reproach this to his friend when he behaved exactly the same way?

  
“I’m sorry Athos.”

“Stop being sorry and tell me what I can do.” Athos retorted harshly.

“I … I thought it would be alright when I could have my feet back on the ground … I didn’t feel the pain because I was fighting, because we needed to stop them, to stop him.”

“And you needed to be killed to save us all.” Athos muttered without looking at him.

  
         He was very aware that it wasn’t the moment, that it was a low blow but Aramis’ state reminded him too well that his friend could have died, that he was in pain … and sad, upset … He realised that seeing Aramis so vulnerable frightened him. He was rarely hurt and always managed to hide his suffering.

  
“I apologise, it was unwelcome. Tell me. What do I do now?”

“I think my shoulders have suffered from the position I had when I was their prisoner. I need to put something hot on the articulation to relax it and calm the pain. Then … there is a salve I have prepared for this kind of wound, I just tried to … reach it earlier … and …”

“And you failed and broke a vial in the process. Couldn't you ask for help? You are a stubborn mule!” Athos exclaimed swiping his hair out of his eyes with a nervous movement of the head.

“We are alike.”

  
         Athos smiled, the small wrinkles around his eyes making him look younger in spite of the exhaustion, the freckles even more visible than usual on the pale skin of his cheeks giving him an almost boyish expression. Perhaps it was a trick of the flickering light, perhaps it was the fact that, for a moment, Athos had relaxed. Giving a task to his hands allowed his mind to rest.

 

“ So where is your magic potion?”

“Shelf on the wall. It’s ridiculous, it isn’t high, but I just … I couldn’t stretch my arm and …” He didn’t finish as a wave of pain sent a burning sensation through his whole right arm, numbing his fingers and the pain in his head was suddenly worse than the one induced by the worst migraine he had experienced.

  
         Athos was now trying to start a fire in the small fireplace. The wet atmosphere didn’t help and the wind blew back an impressive billowing cloud of white smoke into the small room.

  
“I hung like a ham for hours.” Aramis tried to laugh. “Now you are trying to smoke me … mmh.” He was interrupted by a stabbing pain which momentarily blinded him, aggravating his lingering headache.

  
         Athos turned towards him, worried, but his friend had already regained his composure. At last, the reluctant coal and relatively dry kindling produced a small shy blaze which Athos encouraged with his usual obstinacy and all the air his lungs could give. Soon, a bright fire warmed the room. Athos stood up, sweating slightly, then, moving two books and a small bottle, he reached for a small pot-bellied pewter vessel and raised a questioning eyebrow toward Aramis. The latter nodded.

  
“It’s a powder, you will have to mix it with hot water.”

  
         Athos moved his nose towards the pot and suddenly recoiled , the suffocating smell surprising him.

  
“Arnica, mustard, germander and …” Aramis made a pause and tried to wriggle his fingers - in vain as they were asleep- but he wanted to prove that he could manage alone.

 

“Athos, just mix it and go back to Sylvie. I will manage. My left arm is better now.”

“Porthos is with Sylvie.”

“But she needs you.” Aramis countered.

“And you need me.” Athos concluded while heating water in a small cauldron.

  
         Aramis remained silent, frowning as he watched Athos prepare the mixture with delicate careful movements. He saw him plunge his elegant fingers into the water to test the temperature then take a folded cloth to bring the cauldron to the bedside table.

  
“You will have to take off your shirt…” Athos said, hesitating as he tried to figure out how Aramis would manage to do it without increasing his pain.

“I tried … before you … I can’t.” Aramis whimpered as he tried again, angry at being so vulnerable and invalid.

“Bend down.”

“What?”

“Bend down, it will be easier. Trust me, I had to do it, remember…” Athos smiled encouragingly.

  
         Aramis gingerly bent down and Athos pulled on the shirt until he could remove it without hurting his friend. He noticed the reddish shadows on the wrists and he froze at the sight of the dark bruises covering Aramis’ back and laid his hand between his shoulder blades where the skin was still cold and clammy.

  
“You …”

“I know, but it’s nothing. Just take care of the shoulders and go back to your room.” Aramis grunted, the strong pain making his voice quiver.

“I didn’t know it could happen.” Athos began while covering his friend’s shoulders with a folded cloth soaked in hot water. “Did you dislocate your shoulder?”

“Er … “

“Aramis?”

“Yes, slightly.” He admitted.

“Slightly?” Athos exclaimed, his voice louder making Aramis wince. “ It’s dislocated or not, I didn’t know it was possible to have a _slightly_ dislocated shoulder. You are incorrigible. And you …”

“Yes, I did.”

  
         Athos sat down next to him to prepare the salve. Aramis, taking comfort in the body against his and the relaxing warmth of the room which calmed his pain, began to doze, his head lolling gently.

  
“You know you won’t get rid of me so easily.” Athos said in a flat tone.

“Pardon?”

“I think it’s ready.” Athos announced instead of answering, then he snorted softly.

“What?”

“It’s like cooking … At least, I suppose … ”

  
         Aramis began to laugh but Athos, kneeling on the bed, chose this moment to apply a thick layer of salve on the sore shoulders and he gritted his teeth against the burning pain. Athos watched as he squeezed his eyes shut, as a sheen of sweat covered his forehead and he hurried to finish his task, wrapping a warm bandage around both shoulders and covering his friend with a blanket before washing his hands and settling again next to him.

  
“Go to your room, Athos.” Aramis mumbled.

  
         Athos shook his head, crossing his arms on his chest.

  
“You have …duties.”

“You are right.” Atho replied.

  
         Aramis sighed, relieved, and waited.

  
“And my duties include taking care of my Musketeers.”

“You did it, so now …”

  
         Athos stood up to stoke the fire and sat down again, next to his friend, careful not to hurt his shoulders, but mindful to stay close. To Aramis’ dismay, he took off his boots and settled more comfortably against him.

  
“Athos …” Aramis sighed, frustration in his tone.

  
         He didn’t know if he was irritated or relieved, probably both. The pain in his shoulders had already begun to lessen and now he was able to move his fingers without sending waves like hot blades through his whole body and head. He was irritated because he knew it wasn’t Athos’ place, he knew the Captain should have been with Sylvie. He was relieved because the unsaid between them suffocated him and things needed to be clarified.

  
“Do you mind sharing a corner of this large blanket?”

“Go back to your room, Captain Stubborn.” Aramis grumbled in lieu of an answer.

  
         Athos just pulled on the side of the blanket to cover his legs. The wet leather of his uniform was uncomfortable and the meagre fire in the hearth wasn’t enough to warm him. He was exhausted. He had told them that he was tired, but tired was far from the reality. He was exhausted, and sad, and angry and … pessimistic. It was this pessimism that he fought hard to hide. At the beginning he had thought that Grimaud was no more than a new enemy, that their solid brotherhood could defeat him quickly, but it appeared that the man had nothing to lose and was a lunatic murderer.

         He felt a lump slowly forming in his throat, made of fear, grief, shame. Shame because he knew he should be with his new found love who had suffered partly because of him, shame because he didn’t want to go back to her and feel again the nausea which rose in him each time he contemplated the shattered golden skin. _Coward,_ was the word which formed in his mind. He refused to face the reality again. He let his eyes wander around the small room, its ochre walls, the books on the shelf, the sconce on the wall, the bright coloured fabric covering the chest, an embroidered handkerchief which had apparently been used as a bookmark in a thick book, Aramis’ beloved hat upside down on the floor next to the door. He breathed in deeply and the smell of smoke, leather, plants and sweat filled his nostrils. As his eyes stared at the fire, his eyelids began to flutter. Aramis’ body was a warm heavy weight against his. He flinched, suddenly conscious that he was falling asleep, and Aramis straightened immediately, stifling a whimper. Athos turned towards him.

  
“I’m sorry. I hurt you.”

“No, I hurt you.”

  
         He frowned at the unexpected words.

  
“What do you mean?”

“I hurt you, I have been hurting you for years.”Aramis added, leaning forward and trying to massage the stiff cold fingers of his right hand.

  
         Athos tipped his head backwards and looked up at the ceiling. _This is it, then_. He thought. _The visible wounds hide worse pains._

  
“What are you talking about, Aramis?

  
_**To be continued ...** _


	4. Let's play!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Beth for your help. xxx  
> ♥♥ to my readers :-)

“How is Porthos?”

“I asked you a question.”

 

Aramis straightened and looked at him, his eyes shining through his curls.

 

“And I ask you one. Is he angry?”

“I suppose so … perhaps. You should ask him.”  Athos replied, aware that his words were harsh. He continued, trying to soften his tone. “I know he is worried. Why didn’t you let him see you? Why did you lock yourself in your den like a wounded animal?”

 

Aramis leaned back against the wall, wincing as the movement reignited the pain in his shoulder. Athos turned towards him and watched as he managed to lift his left hand and slip his fingers underneath the bandage, making the blanket slip down his torso. The skin under the thick linen looked red but it could be a trick of the light, or the effect of the mustard. His temples shone with sweat. His cheekbones seemed sharper than usual, his jaws worked nervously as he swallow his saliva, struggling to calm the pain and his inner turmoil. The shadows playing on his face made him look thinner and older. Athos sighed.

 

“How long must you keep it? I suppose it burns your skin.” Athos asked, worried.

“I can bear it.”

“What are you playing at, Aramis? Suffering is not an answer to your doubts and fears. Talk to me. Now.”

 

         Aramis resumed his frantic massaging of his right hand. Athos couldn’t tear his eyes away from the movement. Aramis’ breathing became faster and Athos felt his body tremble against his. He gently reached for his friend’s hand and wrapped his long warm fingers around it.

 

“Calm down, talk to me.”

 

         Aramis sighed and tried to escape his touch, but Athos tightened his grip.

 

“Tell me.”

         The man remained silent for long seconds before whispering.

 

“I wanted to protect you. All of you.”

“And you protected us.”

“Let me speak. I wanted to protect you. Each time. When I left, when I came back, when …”

“When you put yourself between a bullet and that monster.”

“And each time, I failed.” Aramis muttered, bowing his head and slipping his fingers from Athos’ grip.

“Oh, you failed, and how do you explain that we are all still alive?” 

“Alive …” Aramis snorted dejectedly. “What has become of us, Athos? Alive, but ...”

 

         Athos bent his legs and wrapped his arms around them, putting his chin on his knees and staring at the wall opposite until his eyes burnt.

 

“Athos, what has become of us? Since I … Since that day … or rather night .. you know ... Think about it. I broke everything.”

“Oh, so everything's your fault. Well, let us make a summary of your bad deeds … In Pinon, who saved Porthos?”

“Very well, let’s play.” Aramis replied coldly after a silence. “I brought Rochefort’s ire on us.”

 

         Athos sighed. Aramis wasn’t entirely wrong but Rochefort hated them anyway, even before he discovered about … well no need to answer, Aramis wasn’t ready to hear his arguments.

 

“My turn.” He mumbled. “You killed your friend Marsac to save the Captain.”

 

         Aramis stayed quiet for a few seconds, his face scrunched up in thinking.

 

“Don’t forget Pauline and Adèle.” 

“Don’t forget my wife and Catherine.” Athos replied immediately.

“Porthos received an arrow because I missed my shot.”

“You saved Porthos by killing Charron.”

“How wonderful! I killed his best friend.” Aramis sneered, his mouth drawing a bitter line in his pale face.

“YOU are his best friend, don’t you know that?” Athos replied, anger and frustration vibrating in his deep low voice.

 

         Aramis stood up so abruptly that he swayed and muffled a scream. Athos straightened, stretched his legs, but let his friend approach the blind window. He took time to pull on his boots - grimacing when the wet cold leather made contact with his now warm skin-  to give Aramis a little privacy. He waited, his elbow on his knees, his hands clasped between them. The rain had ceased its heavy  _ galop  _ and merely danced a light  _ pavane _ on the roofs. He watched Aramis’ hunched back. At last, the man’s voice came, broken and shaky, but he didn’t turned around.

 

“I … let him down … again … I abandoned him  … and you, before the war because of my errors and again I … Why didn’t he shoot, Athos? Tell me! Grimaud would be dead! You would be safe, all of you. ”

 

         Athos felt suddenly cold, an icy sweat trickling down his spine.  _ He _ had shot.  _ He _ had risked his friend’s life. At that moment, the only thing he could see was their worst enemy, a few feets away from them, an easy target if not for his human shield. He had shot without thinking, almost without aiming. Realising what he had done, what he could have done had nearly choked him and it was now a weight he couldn’t dislodge from his stomach, making him nauseous each time he remembered those dreadful minutes.

He saw Aramis lift his left hand and pull on his hair before letting his arm fall and Athos recognised the unmistakable shaking of the shoulders and head. He felt embarrassed. Witnessing his friend’s grief was something rare. Even at the convent, he had managed to hide his tears ; after Marsac’s death, they had let him hide his sorrow, alone … or comforted by an anonymous female tenderness, and now … 

Athos stood up silently and slowly joined him, staying beside him without uttering a word for he had no words to offer. He laid his hand on his friend’s back, his thumb running back and forth in a comforting movement. He turned his head to watch Aramis’ profile and shivered at the sight of the pale skin, the hollow look and the silent tears trembling on his lashes, hanging there, waiting to fall. At last, Athos found the words. They left his lips in a soft but firm murmur.

 

“We would be safe, Aramis, and alive, but you would have destroyed Porthos … and us all. Being alive without you is … unthinkable?” Athos’ tone was almost interrogative, the Captain wondering if the word was strong enough to picture what he had in mind, what he felt.

 

         It made Aramis chuckle, the sound a wet gurgling, and the man turned to face Athos, looked at him for a second before pursing his lips and closing his eyes in a vain effort to block his grief. Feeling that the dams he had spent years building were threatening to break, he shook his head and let his forehead fall on his friend’s shoulder. His left hand slowly clutched at Athos’ shirt front and his friend let him expel his grief in quiet muffled sobs. Athos rearranged the blanket around his shoulders and moved his hand in soothing circles on the shivering back, the feeling of the rough woolen fabric under his fingertips calming his own nerves.

 

“I’m sorry. I just … can’t …” Aramis stammered after a few seconds.

 

Athos smiled sadly, his own eyes shining.

 

“I know … You can’t stop, can’t move for now, can’t talk … I know. Take your time.” He murmured.

“You should be …”

“I am where I should be, I am here for you.” Athos whispered, the strong smell of the poultice filling his nostrils, a reminder of Aramis’ physical pain. 

 

         He stopped his movements and, his hand splayed on his friend’s back, he clumsily drew him closer in a rare display of affection before adding calmly, leaning his cheek against Aramis’ damp hair.

 

“And when you are ready, I want you to come with me. Porthos needs you and … “

“And Sylvie?” Aramis asked in a wobbly voice, raising his head to look at him, squinting almost comically. 

 

Athos smiled fondly at the sight of the dishevelled hair, the ruffled mustache, the blurry eyes and the running nose.

 

“I know, I am pathetic.” Aramis lowered his gaze.

“You are human. Just human.” The Captain answered, letting him step back but unable to keep himself from briskly smoothing an unruly curl away from his friend’s wet eyes. He withdrew his hand quickly and rolled his eyes to hide his embarrassment.

 

         Aramis looked at him amazed and touched, then he smiled …a smile which at last reached his eyes and he gratefully took the handkerchief Athos handed him, saying:

 

“You too, my friend, you too.” 

 

**ooo000O000ooo**

 

         By the time they left the room, Athos had helped Aramis to wash off the burning sticky poultice, wrapped his right shoulder in a tight bandage, helped him to dress again and secured his right arm in his blue sash he had tied around his neck. 

The more he approached his apartments, the more the Captain slowed his pace, his heart hammering in his chest. Aramis felt his tension and slowed down. When Athos stopped at the top of the stairs, he came to face him, staring into the tired pale eyes as if trying to give him what little strength he had to share. Athos nodded, the warmth and understanding he read into the liquid chocolate of his friend’s eyes gave him enough courage to continue. When they reached his door, he stopped again. Aramis silently came behind him. They weren’t familiar yet with  a silent Aramis but maybe it was one of the consequences of his years in the monastery. He felt the man’s hand on his back and was tempted to lean into the touch, to escape the reality he had to face, to escape his duties. He swallowed his saliva and, feeling Aramis’ hand nudge him slightly, his feverish breath warm on his cheekbone as he murmured something he didn’t even try to understand, he forced his lungs to draw in enough air and pushed the door which was already slightly ajar.

         The room was dark, the candle had burnt low and Sylvie was asleep, her skin shining with perspiration. Porthos was still in the position they had left him, but he seemed half asleep, his head lolling slightly. Someone -perhaps Constance -had probably managed to clean the wounds and had covered them with a gauze soaked in a substance Athos didn’t recognise until he approached the bed and the strong sugary smell of honey assaulted his nostrils. 

         The rustling of Athos’ clothes started Porthos who immediately straightened and reached for the pistol which laid on his lap.

“Oh, it’s you.” He sighed.

“And me.” Aramis whispered stepping sideways to show himself.

         Porthos’ face displayed such a mixture of various expressions that Aramis would have laughed in any other situation. He was surprised, amazed, angry, sad, irritated and … finally, his features relaxed, he stood up cautiously and came to face Aramis while Athos took his place on the chair. They could barely see each other, Porthos’ large body blocking the weak light of the dying candle.

“You …”

“I’m sorry, Porthos.” Aramis murmured, looking at his feet.         

         For long seconds, they stayed like that, unable to look at each other, unable to move, embarrassed and awkward until Porthos couldn’t resist anymore and took him in his arms rocking him slowly, like he would have done with a frightened child, forgetting in his relief that the body against his was that of a soldier, a man who knew how to kill, who had killed more times than he could remember, a man who always looked so strong and confident. He hadn’t  noticed the blue sling and couldn't see the grimaces of pain on his friend’s face but the tremors running through Aramis’ limbs, the fact that he didn’t return the embrace and a stifled whimper were enough to warn him and he stepped back. He kept a hand on Aramis’ biceps and looked at him from head to toe, noticing the slump of his shoulders, the lax fingers, the sling and he sighed.

“Oh, Aramis, not again!”         

**_To be continued ..._ **


	5. You need me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and reviewing this story. I hope you will enjoy this chapter and ... just ... I apologise for ... well, I let you read and you will know why !

 

“What do you mean by _not again_?” Athos asked.

 

         As Porthos didn’t answer, he looked at Aramis.

 

“Aramis?”

“I’m sorry, Athos.” He mumbled.

“Oh, Aramis, stop being sorry. Why does he say _again_?”

“Because it’s not the first time, is it Aramis?” Porthos answered, frustration colouring his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me when I came? Letters, you had letters to write! I should have guessed.” Porthos exclaimed raising his hands in an angry gesture.

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“You …” Porthos began, his voice harsh, ready to argue.            

“Porthos.” Athos interrupted. “ Please. Just tell me what you mean by _again_?”

“Because it happens sometimes since this stupid mule confused a window with a door and landed on an awning, remember, and maybe because he has spent too much time hanging to the windowsills of married mistresses trying to escape their furious husband’s wrath. Oh, and I forget,when he tried to free himself from a stupid cell where the one-eyed blond lunatic had locked him up, stupidly pulling on stupid chains.”

“Have you finished, Porthos? I think everyone knows now that I am stupid, in case they had forgotten.” Aramis snapped, turning around to leave the room.

 

         He was opening the door when a whimper from Sylvie stopped him. He turned to look at her, to look at Athos, bent over her back and whispering in her ear, and he turned around again to flee the room, closing the door softly behind him, letting a waft of wet cool air enter.

 

“What the …” Porthos muttered, taken aback, before another moaning stopped him. “Her fever was lower, Athos, I swear.”

 

         Athos looked up, his tired eyes shining in the flickering light.

 

“Don’t worry, Porthos, you did well.” He paused, following Porthos’ gaze which was fixed  on the door again. “He will come back. I know he will.”

“I wish I had your faith.” The tall man mumbled before taking a stool and sitting down next to Athos. “ What can I do, Athos?”

“You have already done enough, go to your room, try to sleep. Thank you, for everything.” Athos answered softly, squeezing his friend’s knee.

 

**ooo000O000ooo**

  


         Aramis stepped outside with a strange contradictory feeling of loss and relief. He let the light drizzle refresh his burning skin before heading back to his lodgings. He could sense Porthos’ anger, even through the walls, it was a funny thought and it made him smile, even if the smile never reached his eyes or his heart. Something was broken, he had broken something and he wasn’t able to talk about it, even think about it. When had he lost his silver tongue, his optimism? He shivered and hastened his pace.

Each step made the pain pulse through his arm from his neck to his fingers, the burning sensation increasing after each impact of his heels on the ground, in the same way that the ripples, created by a pebble thrown into a calm pond, become bigger and bigger until they are as strong as the waves of a rising tide. When he reached his door he lifted a trembling hand to open it. Once inside, he closed it and leaned against the wood, breathing in deeply, even if each breath reignited the pain. He stepped into the dark room where the fire had already died and the candle Athos had lit earlier was close to the same fate. He fumbled to light a new one, ignoring the sconce which was definitely too high. After a few clumsy movements, the room was bathed in a soft trembling orange glow. Aramis took a few seconds to look around him, as if he saw his belongings for the first time His eyes fell on the glass he had filled and never emptied, the amber liquid, shining with the reflections of the flame, attracting him like a promise. _Well, why not,_ he thought, and emptied it in one gulp, the strong liquid warming his whole body and temporarily numbing the pain. He took advantage of this relative truce to look for what he had came to retrieve. He tried to empty his mind as efficiently as he had emptied the glass. Thinking was for later, analysing his thoughts was for later, finding excuses and pretexts was for later, apologising was for later. For now, he had to help, he had to share his medical knowledge to help Sylvie and Athos. They were his priority. Instinctively, while fumbling through his chests and shelves, he started to pray, mechanically, without thinking, repeating the words like those of a soothing nursery rhyme.

 

**ooo000O000ooo**

  


“Porthos, go to your room.” Athos said in a nervous whisper, staring at Sylvie’s unmoving form.

“Do you want me to go?” Porthos asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?” Porthos asked.

“God, Porthos, go to bed!”

 

         Athos didn’t have enough strength to sound irritated.

 

“Why do you want me to go?”

 

         At last, Athos turned towards Porthos and looked straight into his friend’s jet coloured eyes, noticing the deep crease marking his forehead.

 

“You need to rest.”

“You need me.” Porthos stated.

“No, I …” Athos stopped suddenly lowering his gaze. “I do … but.”

“So I will stay.” Porthos concluded crossing his arms over his broad chest.        

 

         A heavy silence filled the room again, only broken by the crackling of the fire in the hearth, the hooting of an owl and the wind whistling through the branches of the trees and the gables of the balcony.

         Sylvie had been agitated after Aramis’ departure, trying to roll over, screaming, sweating and making one of her wounds bleed profusely. Her face twisted like a mask of _commedia dell’arte_ , her features barely recognisable. She was burning with fever. She had called her father, called Constance and surprisingly, only just before losing consciousness, overcome by pain and exhaustion, she had whispered Athos’ name. Now, she was completely immobile, literally drinking the air in small shaky gulps. This relative calm was frightening after the previous storm and both men feared another fit.

         They stared at the unmoving form for long minutes until Porthos turned his head and looked at Athos. The man seemed transfixed, his eyes wide open, his hands on his knees, his knuckles white from the strength of his grip. Porthos called him softly, but he was still as a statue except from his breathing. It had gone unnoticed by Porthos but slowly, Athos had - though probably unconsciously- matched Sylvie’s feverish breathing.

 

“Hey.” Porthos whispered.

 

         Athos didn’t react. Porthos couldn’t fathom what kind of thoughts were running behind the clear irises but he had to do something before the man began to panic.

 

“Athos.” He tried again.

 

         It seemed that Athos was prisoner of his own mind and it terrified Porthos. His Captain was usually so in control of his emotions, he wished Aramis was there, but he had started to doubt that he would come at all. He shook his head trying to get rid of the pessimism which had slowly invaded his mind, born from exhaustion and fear. He knew he could trust Aramis, deep down he knew he would come back, he knew he would take care of them all, as he had always done, but for now, in this dark room, with a broken Sylvie, an Athos lost somewhere in a world he couldn’t reach for now, he was unable to think otherwise.

 

“Athos, come back please.” He pleaded raising an uncertain hand towards him.

 

         No reaction. He had seen men in this state, after attacks during the war, men who sat amongst bodies, staring at things only they could see, unmindful of the bullets whistling at their ears, deaf to the clashing of swords around them ... but never Athos. Athos always seemed to cross the chaos unperturbed by what surrounded him, his features unreadable.

 

“I’m scared, Athos, say something.” He said a little louder, at last gripping his friend’s forearm.

 

         Athos finally blinked, lowered his gaze towards Porthos’ fingers and stared at them for a few seconds before slowly raising his head to look at his friend, as if he was surprised to see him there. Then he seemed to hold his breath while he brought a trembling hand to his mouth.

 

“Hey, it’s alright, Athos; calm down, breathe slowly.”

“I …”

“Shhh … just breathe.” He instructed, breathing slowly and deeply himself.

 

         Athos’ hand still covered his mouth, his eyebrows were drawn together in a circumflex accent, and suddenly, as the tension left his body, his eyes watered and Porthos, amazed, watched two barely visible tears slowly stream down his face, running along his nose, in his dimples, to disappear in his beard.

 

“Hey, come here.”

 

         He opened one arm and Athos, after a second of hesitation, listed sideways and leaned against his friend, his head nestled under Porthos’ chin.

 

“She will heal, Athos. She just needs time.”

 

         Athos shook his head -but Porthos couldn’t see his expression- and he tried to straighten and fight his friend’s’ embrace but the latter didn’t let him go, so Athos just stopped fighting.

 

“You are exhausted, you should sleep.”

 

         He rubbed his friend’s arm up and down to reassure and calm him. To reassure and calm himself. What could happen if their steadfast Captain began to panic? He could feel Athos trying to calm down against him, swallowing his saliva with difficulty. Porthos remained silent, waiting patiently for the wave of grief to subside. A loud thud followed by a gasp made him turn around in alarm. Against him, Athos barely stirred, a proof if any were needed that the man was beyond exhausted.

 

         Porthos didn’t turn around immediately but couldn’t hide his smile and his sigh of relief for he knew who the newcomer was.

 

“Is she … is he …?” Aramis stammered from the threshold.

“Everyone is alright. As alright as possible. I think this one needs a good night’s sleep.” Porthos smiled fondly, nodding towards Athos, slumped in his arms.

 

         Aramis, retrieved the bag he had dropped in his fear of what might have happened and came to kneel next to the bed.

  


**ooo000O000ooo**

 

         Gathering what he needed for Sylvie had been an ordeal; carrying the bag had been even worse. The strap pulling on his tendons, Aramis quickly renounced to carry it over his shoulder and almost dragged it, holding it in his left hand. It wasn’t heavy but even holding a feather would have hurt him. So he let it bump over the wet uneven ground of the courtyard, the pots and vials clinking in the silence of the night.  
         His body had met bullets and swords, he had had broken bones and burns, but they were all honest pains, as he called them. A bullet provoked a strange feeling, like a burn. First there was actually no feeling at all so the brain had enough time to realise what had happened, to prepare itself to the pain and in a strange way to welcome it. The pain he experienced now was a traitorous one,  a pain which didn’t bother knocking but stormed the house like a band of barbarians, before retreating suddenly to come back later in the most unexpected way, even more forcefully. He knew he had no other option than to submit to it, like a hostage, and like a hostage, to try and tame it, to seduce it.          When he had arrived at Athos’ door, he was breathless, anxious, drained and almost in tears. Now was the time to silence his own pains, his own misgivings. They needed him and his knowledge.

         He had managed to open the door silently, assuming that perhaps his friends were asleep. It was a scary sight which had welcomed him and he had frozen, dropping the bag at his feet. Athos in Porthos’ arms made him fear the worst. He knew the man rarely sought that kind of comfort, so, surely … but then, Porthos had turned around, his usual gentle smile on his lips and Aramis had temporarily forgotten all his pains, basking in the warmth of that smile.

 

**ooo000O000ooo**

 

         Aramis looked at Athos resting peacefully against Porthos’ shoulder and the latter nodded towards Sylvie. So Aramis shuffled on his knees and laid his hand on the young woman’s forehead.

“She is burning with fever.” He murmured.

         Porthos sent him an interrogative look which Aramis understood immediately. He gingerly slipped his right hand from the sling, bent over the dreadful gashes and probed at them carefully, gently, murmuring quietly in Sylvie’s ear each time a whimper escaped her parched lips.

“It’s the pain. It’s not infected. I will clean her back again and apply a salve.”

“You mean the thing which has a disgusting smell.”

“Good guess.”

“You will wake her.”

“I know but it’s necessary, I don’t want an infection to settle in her wounds.” Aramis whispered grimacing when the traitorous pain, after a moment of truce, pulsed forcefully through his whole right side.

“Are you alright, Aramis? What can I do?”

“Keep your current role.”

“My role?”

“Mattress and pillow.” He smiled before frowning. “ It’s odd, he seems more unconscious than asleep.”

         Porthos couldn’t see Athos’ face which was now buried in the folds of his shirt. Aramis left Sylvie’s side for a moment. His eyes were shadowed but he had an indecipherable look, his eyebrows drawn together in deep concentration.

“His breathing is calm and even.” Porthos stated. “He is just sleeping, stop worrying Aramis. I even think he is drooling on my shirt.” He added with a smile. “Take care of Sylvie.”

         Porthos watched Aramis while he began to clean the young woman’s back. When he applied his smelly salve and covered the broken skin with a thin veil of linen. Sylvie briefly opened her teary eyes. Aramis managed to make her swallow a clear liquid with an acrid smell. His movements were mesmerising, his hands always moving in a caress, his long fingers undulating over the shattered skin, by turns firm and gentle, his neck bent, his curls brushing the young woman’s shoulders. Porthos was amazed at how his friend had silenced his own suffering which he could still read in the palor of his skin, in the sheen of sweat covering his forehead as well as in the sporadic tremors which sometimes made his hand tremble and his whole features stiffen.

“Athos.” Sylvie whispered, her voice dry as an autumn leaf.

         Porthos chuckled softly.

“Look at our sleepy Captain, he didn’t even stir when you dropped your bag, didn’t even move when we talked over his head and now, one magic word and…”

“A magic voice.” Aramis smiled while gathering -one handed, Porthos noticed- all his vials, pots and cloths to put them back into the bag.

         Athos’ eyes were wide open but red rimmed and teary … and hollow. Neither Porthos nor Aramis could have expected what happened in the next seconds. Athos lunged forward and pushed Aramis aside with an angry roar.

“Don’t touch her!”

 

_**To be continued ...** _


	6. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ****
> 
> I apologise for the bittersweet atmosphere of this ff but it mirrors the feeling I have each time I watch S3. 
> 
> I don't know if I will write another ff but I am grateful for your lovely reviews and your support.  
> Thank you Beth for your help. xxx

         Porthos watched, shocked, as Aramis fell backwards under the violent push and screamed with a barely human sound when his shoulders hit the hard floor, he watched as Athos froze and suddenly seemed to awake from a trance and to realise what he had just done, he watched as Sylvie opened her eyes and tried to roll onto her back until exhaustion pulled her back into a deep sleep, tears streaming down her cheeks to soak the pillow.

         Athos looked horrified, unable to move. At last, Porthos reached out for his arm with cautious movements and the Captain flinched. He was about to kneel beside Aramis but Porthos stopped him, his hand on Athos’ chest, the other one extended towards Aramis.

 

“Sit with her.”

 

         But Athos couldn’t tear his eyes away from Aramis’ form.

 

“Aramis … I’m sorry … I thought …”

“Athos, he will understand as soon as his mind can work properly again. You protected her. Don’t worry.”

 

         He gently made him sit down on the edge of the mattress, where Athos began to caress Sylvie’s shoulder, with a hand, while the other one was curled around her too warm fingers, but his eyes were still on Aramis. Porthos knelt beside their friend and laid a hand on his chest.

 

“Don’t … don’t touch me.” Aramis whimpered, trying to roll over and curl on himself.

“What can I do?” Porthos whispered withdrawing his hand.

“Nothing. It just … mmmh … has to pass.”

 

         His skin was ashen, tears of pain were leaking between his closed eyelids, his breathing was … Breathing? Porthos suddenly realised  that Aramis was currently holding his breath, his face a mask of pain.

 

“Hey, hey, Aramis, breathe, breathe.”    Porthos pleaded with the unpleasant impression that he was repeating himself and wondering why both his friends had decided to forget the essential survival reflex.

“Porthos? What is it?” Athos asked, scared.

“It’s just the pain, Athos, don’t worry.”

 

         He took Aramis’ left hand in his and tightened his grip when he felt the cold fingers trying to escape.

 

“Aramis, try to breathe, squeeze my hand. You know how solid I am, squeeze, it won’t break ... and if it breaks, well, you know how to fix it.”

“Don’t ma … make me … laugh”

“Good, you are breathing again.” Porthos smiled. “How is the pain now?”

“Remember … dislocated shoulder … mmh … worse.”

 

         Aramis squeezed Porthos’ hand, until his field of view began to enlarge again, until the flashes of white light decreased, until the waves of fire faded. The room remained silent for long minutes until Athos’ voice rose, shaky and small.

 

“I did that. I thought …”.

 

         Porthos turned around to look at him.

 

“You did what soldiers and lovers do. You protected her. You just didn’t recognise him. You were in such a deep sleep ...”

 

         Athos’ features were drawn, he was pale and his lower lip trembled slightly.

 

“Athos, stop that. He will be alright.” Porthos asserted.

 

         At last, Aramis seemed to relax and he loosened his grip on Porthos’ hand. He tried to sit upright but he couldn’t prop himself on his hands so Porthos knelt behind him to give him a support.

 

“I’m fine, now.” He said in a barely recognisable voice. “Help me to stand up, please.”

 

         Athos came to help and they managed to haul him onto his feet without hurting his shoulder.

 

“My bag, please.”

“Why do you want your bag?” Porthos asked suspiciously while helping him to slip his arm back into the makeshift sling.

 

         Aramis bowed his head.

 

“Because I …”

 

         He stopped and slowly walked to the door, his left hand gripping his right forearm. Athos had watched the whole exchange, frowning slightly. Porthos had knelt on the floor to retrieve the bag but had suspended his movements.

 

“I … must … Give me my bag” Aramis stammered without looking at them and turning towards the door.      

“You don’t need to  …” Porthos began.

“Stay here.” Athos literally growled.

 

         Aramis slowly raised his left hand and ran it through his already tousled hair before stepping back towards the wall and sliding down it with a sigh and a grimace. Porthos was speechless. He hadn’t expected Aramis to obey Athos’ order so quickly. He watched as Athos, after a soft caress on Sylvie’s temple, sat down next to him.

 

“You don’t have to carry it alone.”

 

         Porthos looked down at the bag he had picked up and gasped as realisation hit him. Athos wasn’t talking about the bag but about a different burden, much more heavy than that bag of worn leather. He shook his head, cursing himself for being naive and, dropping the bag onto the table, he went to sit down on the other side of Aramis.

 

“I can’t escape now.” Aramis murmured.

“No, you can’t.” Porthos answered crossing his arms over his chest with determination.

“What do you want from me?”

 

         Porthos didn’t reply and Athos just quirked an eyebrow with a meaningful glance. Aramis bowed his head and didn’t utter a word.

 

“Do you intend to do it again?” Athos asked with his perfect noble speech.

“I … you had to take care of Sylvie … I could … rest in my room and wait for this … this pain to stop.”

“Aramis, don’t play the fool, you know perfectly well what I am talking about.”

 

         Aramis frowned and looked at him, then at Porthos, but the latter’s face was resolutely expressionless.

 

‘Oh, that!” He muttered.

 

         Porthos snorted.

 

“Oh, that.” He mimicked Aramis’ flippant tone. “As in _Oh I forgot to do my morning prayers_ ...You just put yourself in front of my pistol, Aramis, _Morbleu_ ! It’s not a trifle.”

“He needed to be stopped.” A    ramis replied, stubbornly repeating what he had said to Athos earlier.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Aramis, stop that.” Athos grunted, for once losing his temper.

 

         Sylvie moaned in her sleep and he stood up to comfort her with a few words, a kiss on her brow and by changing the wet cloth refreshing the burning skin of her neck. He continued to talk to Aramis in a calmer tone but without turning around.

 

“You don’t have to sacrifice yourself and you know it. I shouldn’t have to repeat myself. By sacrificing yourself, you sacrifice us all.”

“I don’t see it like …”

“So you are blind and ...” Porthos snapped.

“Oh, well, is it what you think?” Aramis reposted with a rictus rarely seen on his lips.

“Don’t look at me like that. You don’t scare me.”

“It’s not my intention.” Aramis mumbled unable to look at the reproachful eyes which stared at him and wishing he had enough strength to flee the room.

 

         Athos came back and settled again next to him. Aramis realised, when Athos leaned slightly against him as he sat down, that he had missed the comfort of his presence. Why was he so weak? Why were they so broken? What had he done?

 

“The question is: did you think of everything, of everyone, before playing the target?” Athos asked.

 

         The words spoken in a flat almost cold voice hit Aramis like a blow in the stomach He thought he could hear an underlying anger, an accumulated resentment and his friend's disappointment. If he had looked at Athos, he would have read a mixture of fear and love, the kind of look parents have for their foolish children. If Aramis had looked at Athos he could have read a fond exasperation… but he kept his eyes cast down...

 

“I … No … I just ...”

 

         He shifted nervously and it elicited a muffled cry as the pain in his shoulder awoke.

 

“Stay here.” Porthos ordered, his strong leg pushing Aramis’.  

“I can’t go anywhere.” Aramis snorted bitterly. “I can’t stand without your help.”

“We can’t either.” Athos said in a softer voice.

 

         Aramis looked at him with a frown.

 

“That’s why we need you. That’s why if you sacrifice yourself, we won’t be able to stand anymore.” Athos added solemnly.

“You know you are speaking like a book or ... a priest, Athos?” Porthos laughed, his voice wavering slightly. “I hope it will help our former seminarist to understand … at last.” He added, in a more serious tone.

 

         Aramis chuckled, uncertain. Porthos squeezed his thigh because he was on the wrong side to crush him into his arms.

 

“Our  penance…” Athos whispered.

“Pardon?” Aramis asked raising his head to look at him.

 

         Porthos nodded before standing up, then he crouched down before his friend and raised his forefinger like a stern schoolmaster.

 

“Now, you listen to me! I can’t speak like a book so … Just, please, next time you put yourself in front of a bullet, make sure it isn’t one of mine.”

“One of ours.” Athos completed gripping Aramis’ forearm, careful not to hurt him.

“Or better, just don’t put yourself in front of a bullet.” Porthos added laying his hand next to Athos’ on Aramis’ arm.

 

         Aramis held his breath, suddenly aware of the weight and warmth of the fingers almost digging into his flesh. He stared at his friend’s hands because he didn’t feel strong enough to look at their eyes where he knew he would read all the love he was sure he didn’t deserve. His throat tightened and all the words he wanted to say refused to leave his lips, so he tried to lift his right hand but …

 

“Sorry, I would like to …”

 

         Athos nodded with an understanding smile and Porthos breathed out a soft laugh. They all jumped when they heard a soft knock at the door.

 

“Come in.” Athos said keeping his voice low.

 

         D’Artagnan peered into the room before entering with a bundle of linens in his arms.

 

“What happened?” He asked, worry clear in his eyes and voice.

“Nothing.” Athos answered smiling.

“Am I missing an _all for one_ session?” D’Artagnan asked noticing his friend’s hands on Aramis’ arm.

“Put down your laundry and come here.” Porthos laughed fondly.

 

         D’Artagnan obeyed and came to kneel next to Porthos.

 

“Aramis, what happened?

 

         Aramis didn’t answer.

 

“You are hurt, why didn’t you say anything?” D’Artagnan asked rolling his eyes.

“ _Mon cher_ d’Artagnan!” Aramis whispered, a small bitter smile curling his lips. “ _Conceal your wounds when you have any; silence is the last joy of the unhappy._[ ” *****](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785208/chapters/29526090#chapter_6_endnotes)

“Now, that’s an advice, Aramis!” Porthos grunted shaking his head.

“Don’t listen to him, d’Artagnan, please.” Athos added softly.

“Listen to our Captain, d’Artagnan. He who never conceals anything.” Aramis mumbled, barely audible.

 

         He regretted his words when he saw a shadow veil Athos’ eyes.

 

“Are you alright?” d’Artagnan asked, ignoring the silent exchange between his two brothers.

“I am, now.” Aramis smiled and very slowly, gingerly, he raised his right hand, not very high, but enough to put it on Athos’.

 

         D’Artagnan added his hand with an interrogative look but realising that everything seemed fine, he decided to wait patiently for an explanation. Porthos moved his hand and laid it on d’Artagnan’s. They didn’t hear the light but energetic footsteps, the rustling of a petticoat and the creaking of the door.

 

“Are you all insane? Don’t you think you all have better things to do than swear loyalty to each other on a dusty cold floor in the middle of the night?”

 

         Constance’s voice was high-pitched and Sylvie awoke briefly.

 

“Constance?” She murmured.

 

         The young Madame d’Artagnan put down the basket she had filled with bread and fruits and she went to her bedside. She bent over Sylvie while Athos hurried behind her.

 

“Please … tell them … I’m fine, but could they …”

“Oh yes, they can.” Constance interrupted her before turning towards the sheepish Musketeers. “Gentlemen, now that things seem to be fine between you all, could you stop talking, settle wherever you want to sleep and let this young lady rest?”

“Oi, d’Artagnan, when the garrison needs a new Captain, I think I have a name to suggest. Captain d’Artagnan!” He laughed.

“What? Who?” D’Artagnan asked bewildered.

“Captain Constance d’Artagnan.” He clarified with a wink.

 

         Athos had sat down again next to Sylvie and ran his hand over her hair. She whispered something and he nodded with a bright smile.

 

“Of course, if you don’t mind.”

 

         She smiled before closing her eyes again.

 

“She says that you can stay here.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Constance replied. “My _lieutenant_ and myself are going to our own room if you don’t mind and if you don’t need us.”

 

         D’Artagnan pinched her waist at being called a lieutenant.

 

“Aramis, come on, I will see you to your room.” Porthos said, helping his friend to stand up. “Don’t worry, Captain, I will keep an eye on this one tonight.” He added winking at Athos.

“I am not an invalid.”

“For now, you are.” Porthos laughed while retrieving Aramis’ bag.

“I don’t want a snoring ill-mannered bear in my room …” Aramis said again.

“Can you repeat?”

“I don’t want a …”

“It was ironic. If you say …”

 

         The end of the sentence was lost when Porthos pushed Aramis outside with a last gentle smile towards Athos.

 

**ooo000O000ooo**

 

         The door had been long closed when Athos allowed himself to settle on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, his head on the edge of the mattress, feeling the reassurance of Sylvie’s warm breathing on his hair. A page had been turned. He knew now, that from this moment on, everything would be different. He wanted to believe in their indestructible bond, in their _theatrical_ oath of loyalty, but he knew that things had changed, things had to change, _they_ had changed, they had to change. Some wounds leave scars … and they were all bearing the scars of the past years and the next days would probably bring their load of indelebile marks. He closed his eyes, his throat aching from a hurricane of emotions.

 

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * : In. The Three Musketeers/ Alexandre Dumas, chap. 26
> 
> About what ails Aramis :  
> https://air.unimi.it/retrieve/handle/2434/426099/665882/Calcific%20tendinitis.def.pdf


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